My Vacation, Part 1

I recently returned from a cruise around the western Caribbean on the "Norwegian Sun" with, unsurprisingly, Norwegian Cruise Lines. The ship was commissioned in 2001, therefore it is a truly modern, well-cared for ship. It was also painted white. Daily.
A few words about my voyage to my first destination, the Cayman Islands.
Playing outdoor ping-pong on a the 12th floor of a floating hotel moving at 10 knots is quite an interesting phenomenon. The table was lumpy from sea-air/water damage and sagged in the middle so that every shot bounce back to the middle of the board. After trying a couple of serious games and randomly scattering ping-pong balls about the deck, we struck upon the obvious solution of adding an element of charades to our game. I'm not making this up.
My brother and I would play ping-pong, and my cousin would shot out things like "Ballerina!", "Samurai!", and "Cheerleader!", at which point we would do our best to play ping-pong as if we were those things.
At least I did, because I'm way cooler than my brother. And I hadn't even been drinking.
We also played scrabble. I cried more during the scrabble game than I did the preceding year.
I had no decent letters, and I was reduced to spelling things like "Gayhorny-o" and "XRG", then making up definitions to feed to my fellow players. I also lost at "Chutes and Ladders".

Why, you might wonder, was I wasting my time with such idiocy when I could be in the various bars talking to girls I don't care about?
Because I'm 23, and 23 year-old girls go on cruises for their HONEYMOON. There were zero available girls older than 17. Not that age really matters to me, but its the principle of the thing. Plus, girls that age are stupefyingly dumb.

We had a lifeboat drill as mandated by the USCG, and I attended with my life-preserver strapped to my butt, then not strapped at all. I figured if something goes wrong, I'm going to grab a fire-axe and commandeer a lifeboat, pausing to save as many attractive and fertile women as possible.

There was also a casino, but I'm cursed so I left it alone. I would certainly have lost my money(hah!) as well as my clothing had I gone in there, whether I actually touched anything or not.

I know this story was lame, I promise the next one will be better. It's about Grand Cayman, and it has my grandfather in it, along with some stingrays.

Back from Some Smaller Countries

I've returned from my cruise, and will post some stories as soon as I collect my thoughts properly. Some good tales forthcoming, I think. Some random memories to tide you over.

Cruises are very tiring.
I know a new drink, the "Panty Ripper".
No, I don't want to buy weed, so stop asking.
No, I'm not interested in 16 year olds, and I'm not buying you a drink.
"You'd better belize it! It's unbelizable!" - I'm never going back to this county with my hearing intact.
Charade Ping-Pong is actually pretty fun.
Scrabble is not, unless you haven't slept for a while.
Please STOP trying to throw me out of the cigar-bar, I'm 23!
Honduran coffee is all kinds of bad.
I don't want my hair braided, I'm a guy.
American Expatriates in Honduras have this glassy look and WILL NOT stop talking about nothing, loudly if possible. Perhaps its the coffee.

Enough, I don't want to mess up my stories.

Kidnapped.

I am sorry to report that I've been kidnapped. I'm currently travelling on a Norwegian Cruise Line vessel with a week's worth of destinations, so I will not be posting until I return. If I return. If I return and am able to use a computer or perform any of the higher level functions. And have no new children. Or infections. Or pets.

See you later.

Accursed Humanity.

Today I approached my car to help my friend pack, and was positively floored to discover that I had a substantial dent in my right front fender. I most likely picked it up in the parking lot of the Sunset Place shopping center, yet had failed to notice until this morning.
While not important in terms of the value of this particular car, which happens to be possessed by satan himself, it does give me one more reason to despise and deride my fellow Miamians(?). Barring God's instigation of a smaller battle in the ongoing war between heaven and hell on the sacred terrain of my car, the only plausible explanation is that some coked-out party-goer (probably an accountant), who has mastered the art of walking semi-erect but is baffled by the mystical lines on pavement left by the superior beings of Miami-Dade county, dented my car as he entered or left the parking space adjacent to the one I was occupying. Then he left, no doubt because he is a hedonist, and he correctly guessed that his physical presence when I discovered his action would assuredly be no fun at all. This Audi-driving metrosexual dared to dent Jessica (my car, for those of you that sound out your words and also don't know how to use context).
I need to find out where Satan stands on this, i.e. whether he considers Jessica his personal tool with which to torture me, or is willing to let others join the fun. Oh well, I bet the jerk doesn't have a blog and loyal readers.

Bon Voyage to... ...myself.

Gentle readers, I must impart a solitary cloud on our sunny relations. I am going on a cruise to various ports of call in the carribbean, and I will not return until the 25th. However, this cruise will take me to several countries where I have not yet been arrested, and I will endeavor to be taken into custody directly and write about it.

For Further Reading

I lurk at the following locations, devouring information like Smeagol in his cave.

www.conservativeunderground.com - Where a good mix of ideologies collide, with an emphasis on conservatism/libertarianism.
www.glocktalk.com - Check out the Cop Talk section for some interesting info from various cops. Lot's of information on this board.
www.thegunzone.com - Self-explanatory
www.nationalreview.com - Provides excellent political commentary
www.democraticunderground - Where liberals prove why they lost the election


There are more I go to, but get your own.

Stupid blog.

This blog-thing has the most diabolical picture-hosting procedure I have ever seen, and it rarely works. Now I'm reduced to a "red x" and won't be getting emailed requests to sire children for several minutes. I'm working to fix it, and all will be well soon, my loving readers.

Apologia

I am a horrible half-man, I won't deny it. I made a sincere effort to post more often and failed, so I must now plead in a reconciliatory tone for forgiveness and understanding. Ok, good.

I was whined and cajoled into seeing the movie "National Treasure" a night or two ago, and was pleasantly surprised. This is a monumentally dumb movie that plays like a Family Circus cartoon featuring on of the little children running all over the place and leaving a dotted line behind him for nefarious reasons.
That said, it has a vapid yet infectious glee to it, like that of a Downs' syndrome child. Sure, the kid just ate some gum he found in the youth fair Port-o-John but he's so fired up about it you laugh right along with him, until your sides ache and he succumbs to the gum.
I actually had to sneak in on a wednesday evening, which I was utterly unprepared for. I arrived late (the movie played at 7:30, and I arrived at about 7:45) and was told by the ticket agent that I could no longer purchase tickets for the movie. However, I needed to see this particular showing in order for my friend to meet a wonderful girl already inside the theatre. After a brief conference, we decide to purchase tickets for the 8:30 showing of Blade 3, to properly cover our bases in case of movie suckage and/or overcrowding in the Treasure theatre.
The pesky ticket agent demanded to see ALL of our student IDs, which my smitten friend had neglected to bring. After considerable lip-biting and hand-wringing, she informed us she would let it slide. It came to $21.00 and in retribution for her behavior, I paid with two $20 bills. Game, set, and match. I am a petty person, but I am also a happy one.

Why I read books.

It's becoming increasingly difficult to sort out fact from fiction in the modern world. The phrase "I/You read it on the internet" is used both to substantiate claims and prove them false, but it does neither convincingly. The mainstream media cannot be concered primarily with facts, because it is a big business like any other and profits must come first. The talk of media bias may be quite accurate, but I think the older and more disturbing trend of pure sensationalism is more damaging and more difficult to combat. For instance, the "cop killer" bullet story of 1982 that bore ZERO relation to any relative facts resulted in a flurry of useless, self-serving litigation from congress over an issue that does not exist. Or the NBC/General Motors scandal where NBC rigged GM's light trucks with explosives to "conclusively prove" that they blew up when struck from the side in a typical car accident. They certainly do blow up when struck from the side in a typical car accident while loaded with explosives and detonated at the right frame of film.
Hollywood is responsible for so many misconceptions it's not worth pointing them out. Which is why truly great movies tend to be the work of a single, perfectionist visionary, instead of a viewer-approved focus group.
Contrast all that with a good book. By good I mean rare and antiquated, since there are so few quality reads being produced at this point.
A good book must stand up to generations of analysis and culture changes. If the loyal denizens of Middle-Earth could have discovered some error or inconsistency, they would surely have done so by now.
A good book is an interactive experience, running smoothly (I hope) on the framework of your well-trained mind. The more active your imagination and thought-life is, the more enjoyable a good book becomes.
A good book can change your life. Reading "The Road to Serfdom" by F.A. Hayek (my apologies for the quotes instead of underlining, I don't know how to do that with this software) affected my entire outlook on life.
I wish more people read good books.

The Curse of Jessica Rabbit

Those of you that know me are aware of the sorry state of affairs that is my car. I drive a 1994 3000GT, which is a "sportscar" made by Mitsubishi. It's red, very swoopy-looking, and relatively uncommon. Therein lies the problem.
I've had it for 2 years, and it's spent a significant percentage of that time in the shop, while chanting mechanics light fires under the hood with my money, hoping to appease the demons that possess my Mass Airflow Sensor. It was great when I got it. I had a shiny new girl-attractor, it had a manual transmission, and things were good.
Then I named it.
I name all of my vehicles. Some are merely descriptive while others are personality-based. My first car ever was a metallic raspberry 68 VW Beetle. It was actually a prelude to the car-naming phase, since it was so overtly homosexual I didn't think naming it ANYTHING would help. I sold it to a girl who refused to full depress the clutch when changing gears, despite my very clear instructions and finally, demands that she do so. It blew up shortly after.
Come to think of it, this car was my first vehicle fire. I didn't want to waste a fire extinguisher, so I put it out with the hose when I got home. I really like driving this car.
My next car was an 87 jeep cherokee on loan from my uncle. It was a special model, and had "CHEROKEE CHIEF' stencilled very large on the sides. I dubbed it "The mad jeep". This was a great car. I pushed it a lot until we got the radiator flushed, then it ran like a champ. It had no AC, which in south florida was a major source of amusement and the radio would work until the engine warmed up, then make sounds like a dying kitten. This vehicle floats, as we discovered during one of the many minor hurricanes we had a few years ago.
Next I had an 83 Ford F-150 with 320k miles. Think about vehicles produced in the early 80s, then read the mileage number again. This truck's peculiarities led me to name it "The Whore of Babylon", but I would call it "The Mistress" when in polite company. It had AC, which entitled it to a good deal of tolerance. It was also surprisingly fast, which was good because it was too heavy to push far and it helped to be at a high speed so as to coast as far a possible.

I know you don't care about these cars, and wish I would get to the point, but this is essential to the story.

Ah, Ford trucks. I like them so much I got another. 1981 Ford F-250 with 230k miles. This beast was s l o w, but it had intermitted wipers, and 100k less miles. I'm moving up. We still have this truck, but it has a bent connecting rod and tops out at about 35 miles an hour. I kinda miss driving it. I named it "Helen" as in "Hell on wheels". I know, I'm sorry. Never again.
As a side project to the trucks, we have a 1976 Jeep CJ5 V-8, which is quite possible the most dangerous vehicle on earth. I can touch the front and back wheels with my outstretched arms, and this thing is taller than the F-250. It goes in a straight line faster than the 3000GT, but turning and stopping will result in the immediate death of both back-seat passengers. Naturally I named it "The Death Jeep" and gave rides to local children whenever I could get the brakes to work. One day, it refused to move, and so it sits dangerously in the backyard, awaiting a new generation of victims. I had to push this car up the only hill within 20 miles of my house, but that's a story for another time.

And so we come to my vehicular salvation, my 3000GT. After all the previous vehicles, I was dumbstruck with the beauty of my new crimson corvette-killer(in my dreams). I named it "Jessica". The car went insane the next day. For the next month or so, Jessica received lobotomies, electro-shock treatment, and various Santeria hexes in an effort to fix the car. LOTS of money and curses later, it was still broken and it now had a fine layer of brake dust firmly obscuring the windows. I scrubbed the dust off the spots I use to see, and tried one final mechanic who fixed it immediately. I was overjoyed when the car ran for a blessed, uninterrupted week, then broke again. It is currently in the shop. It is also for sale. I'll make a deal. It still looks nice, and It's named "Jessica".

Sitting on eagles is fraught with Peril

Quite a few summers ago, I was doing volunteer work in Cozumel, Mexico. I, along with about 20 other people, was building an addition to a church in a poor neighborhood whose members were apparently so desperate to expand their facilities that they would allow a group of high-school and college students to handle the construction. Or perhaps that reveals the quality of building construction in Mexico, where untrained, lazy students would be competitive when working for free.
Either way, it was a great experience that presented many challeges for us to master.
1. It's very hot in Mexico. Drink water or some other beverage, or pass out. I chose to pass out, but then your friends will find the most readily available liquid to re-hydrate you with. In my case, it was some local fizzy drink that tasted like dishwater used to clean out a glass of apple juice.
2. There is a trick to sleeping in a real, non-decorative hammock. You have to lie in it diagonally, so that your body will lie flat instead of like a banana. The other option, which I instinctively chose, is to forgoe sleep altogether for several days, while doing heavy manual labor from 05:30 to 16:30. At the end of the several days, you will sleep in a hammock even if it is drenched with rain and covered in mosquitos. I know this.
3. If you go to a beach at night, don't make sudden movements. You'll mess with the local bats' navigation, and they will collide with you. I thought this was really neat, but that may have been caused by experiencing items 1 & 2 first.
4. Don't build a campfire on the aforementioned beach unless you are prepared to bribe the police. The fires keep returning sea-turtles from... well, returning, and the locals hate that.
5. Keep off the eagles. This may seem like a no-brainer, but let me explain. There are a pair of large golden eagle statues by the pier in Cozumel, positioned to greet passengers disembarking from cruise-ships, presumably to inform them of Mexico's greatness or their eagle surplus or something. There is no guardrail around said eagles, nor signs of any kind. These eagles are easily ten feet tall, and very eaglish in form. Meaning that I am going to climb them, and sit on their heads. Our group's photographer hails this as a capital idea, and informs my friend and me that immortality awaits were we to climb on the eagles and be photographed.

Done.

As we dismount the eagles, elements of the Mexican equivalent of the national-guard advance on our position, determined to avenge the eagles' honor. They are coming in jeeps with men manning mounted machine guns. They look unhappy.
We are taken into custody by assault-rifle toting Mexicans who shout reproaches at us, following a general "DON'T SIT ON THE EAGLES!" theme. They begin to lead us to Mexican jail, which sounds bad, but according to reputation is truly quite horrid. Fortunately our group translator begins explaining that we are so stupid, it would be a disgrace to the jail to put us there. The convicts would surely revolt at being forced to breathe the same air as a pair of eagle-squatters. The troops see the reason in this, and let us go with a stern warning against a relapse of eagle-sitting behavior in any future contact with eagles.

I slept pretty well that night, so if you can't figure out the hammock, go sit on the eagles.